A Mother's Tears
by Fyrie
Summary: In the wake of the Second World War, Minerva McGonagall does something that will haunt her for the rest of her life.
1. Chapter One

A Mother's Tears

Notes: As if I didn't have enough series in progress, my muse decided I needed at least two or three more, which was incredibly kind of it and this was one of them. 

I had been looking at thread on FA, which was talking about the cliches of teacher-as-parent fics. The majority of those fics seem to have Sirius or Snape as parental-types, which I find incredibly odd and have yet to find a good one for either.

However, said thread also gave me an idea that wouldn't go away. I did intend it to simply be a one-shot, but then it developed so much that I couldn't resist and now, here's yet another series.

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In the sheltered simplicity of the first days after a baby is born, one sees again the magical closed circle, the miraculous sense of two people existing only for each other.

- **Anne Morrow Lindbergh**

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February 17th 1946

The rain was lashing against the small, square panes of the windows, rattling across the glass, the sky heavy and dense outside. Wind whistled shrilly around the small house, but the Spring chill was staved off by the small fire flickering in the grate at the far end of the small bedroom, which was otherwise lit only by the gas lamps on the walls, the flames sputtering and pale.

The house was that of a witch and her muggle husband, but the room was occupied by neither of them, another young woman sobbing and panting in the bed, as her labour tore through her body.

A midwife, aggravated by her patient's refusal to co-operate was kneeling at the end of the bed, between the woman's upraised knees, barking out orders as the baby began to crown.

Beneath the woman, the sheets were matted with blood and natal fluids, her heavy white nightdress wadded to her body that was soaked with sweat. Dark tendrils of hair clung to her flushed face and her fists were wound into the sheets beneath her.

"If ye'd have got intae the birthin' position sooner, ye wid have been a lot more comfor'able," the midwife growled, scowling, as her patient released an anguished cry of pain around the solid stick that was gripped between her teeth.

Green eyes that were hazy with pain stared wildly at her, tears pouring down the young witch's face.

"Push," the midwife commanded, ignoring the pleading look, the look that begged for a release from the pain, the expression she saw on the face of nigh every mother she aided in labour.

The woman in the bed had done nothing to deserve her sympathy or understanding. 

In the latter throes of her long labour, the young witch was to bear another fatherless bastard into the world already overrun by them, the painful torment of the child's birth nothing more than her own responsibility.

A shriek of agony rent the close air, the sound of tissues tearing signifying the push of the child from the confines of its mother's body and into the open of the world, the woman sinking back, panting.

The ragged rasp of her breathing was overshadowed by the slap of the midwife's hand on the child's back to clear the birthing fluids from child's lungs and throat, then the spluttered thready wail of a newborn. 

"Is... what is it?"

The midwife deposited the child on the sheets, tying off and cutting the umbilical cord then roughly scrubbing the keening babe with a towel. "A lad," she replied in a clipped tone, wrapping the child with a natural familiarity.

The young woman struggled into a sitting position, her eyes on the child. "Can I hold him?" she asked.

"No' yet," the midwife snapped. "Yer no' finished yet, lass. Ye'll haud the bairn when I tell ye, an' no' afore."

The dark-haired young woman in the bed nodded, licking her lips, but made no reply, leaning back against the pillows. 

Swiftly, the midwife picked up the swaddled child, ignoring his pitiable wail, and placed him in the makeshift crib that took up a large space on the floor of the small room, beneath the window.

Outside, the rain and wind continued to batter against side of the house, a deafening clap of thunder rocking it to its foundations as the midwife set to work on her patient once again.

***

It was strangely quiet.

The storm had screamed itself hoarse in a matter of hours, while the savage rain had been reduced to a quiet patter on the roof and the illegitimate child that now lay in his mother's arms was fast asleep.

As soon as the midwife had departed, the witch had withdrawn her wand, to tired to clean herself up manually, brushing a cleansing spell over her body and the room, all the blood and mess of the previous hours replaced by clean sheets.

Cradling her son in her arms, Minerva McGonagall's shaking fingertips touched the rosy cheeks of the child, tiny, stubborn fists clenched on either side of his head, which was dusted with dark tufts of hair.

He was perfect, so very tiny and so very perfect.

Reverently tracing a fingertip over the tiny button of a nose, then along the curve of the child's lips, she could not help but stare in wonder at the accidental miracle that one night had produced.

The night, her night of madness and celebration, had come with the victory in Europe and the end of the Second World War, which was combined with the defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald.

Everyone had been celebrating: some for the returns of their loved ones who had been fighting, some for the peace that would follow, some for the defeat of the dark ones, some just because they could.

Many had imbibed far more alcohol than they could handle and Minerva had been one of them, sharing many drinks with her friends in a pub in Edinburgh and agreeing to the lecherous advances of a dashing American who claimed to be a pilot.

She had woken in his bed the following morning, physically exhausted from head to foot, with a head ache the size of the England-Scotland divide and a sense of bitter regret that she had probably given herself over to a fool.

Donald O'Hara, however, was not a fool.

Far from it, in fact. 

Intelligent, polite and civilised, he had charmed Minerva to remain in his bed for the full day, his wit, his gift with words and his knowledge capturing her attention and keeping her there for reasons that were far from a simple meeting of minds.

She had been convinced, in the hours they spent tangled in one another's arms, that he was decent, respectable and that she - after giving up on the thought of ever finding love - may have found her match.

She was wrong.

When he had seen her to the door in the afternoon and she had made overtures about seeing him again, he had appeared surprised by the thought, informing her that it would be impossible and that he was leaving within days, to go home to his American wife and two children.

Minerva could remember staring at him with a combination of humiliation, anger, shock and pain, one hand rising to clutch at her chest as she backed away from him, shaking her head.

Looking back, how she wished she had whipped out her wand and shown him just why it was unwise to anger a witch, but she had been too shocked by his behaviour, the fact that he would happily acknowledge that he was married...

She had been too shocked to even perform a contraceptive charm to prevent herself from falling pregnant, the proof of which now lay in her arms, little bubbles of saliva bubbling between his small, pouted lips.

Lifting the child up, her eyes closing in pain at the memory of his father, she kissed his brow. Her child. Her secret that no one could ever know.

She knew that she could not keep the child, not if she wanted to continue in the wizarding society with any kind of reputation. As soon as she had discovered that she was expecting the infant, she had taken refuge in her sister's home, knowing that her sister would understand.

Minerva's elder sister, Guinevere Patterson, was ten years older than Minerva and was happily married to a quiet, unassuming muggle by the name of Angus. They had been married for fifteen years and had tried desperately to have a child, but it had proved fruitless.

When, panicked and afraid, Minerva had arrived on the doorstep of her sister's small Highland home five months previously, sobbing out the news that she was carrying a child that she could not keep, the solution had been obvious.

However, now that she had the child, her child, in her arms, Minerva was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had made a mistake, in her desire to be rid of the child. Did her reputation matter so greatly to her?

The baby shifted, whimpering softly and Minerva quickly opened the front of her nightshirt, lifting him to her breast. Her breath hitched at the initial pain when his gummy mouth latched onto her nipple and he started to suckle, but the pain faded and the swell of affection she felt for the baby surpassed any other emotions.

Watching the pursing of the rosy pink lips as he fed, Minerva felt her eyes burn with tears, stroking the child's cheek with her thumb.

Could she bear to part with him, even though she knew that he would have a better home and more love and care than she could provide him?

Her attention was only drawn from the child in her embrace when the door of the room squealed open and her sister's round face peered in nervously. "Minerva? May I come in?" she asked, rubbing her hands down the front of her heavy dark blue dress.

"Of course, Gwen," Minerva replied with a forced smile, although part of her wished she could close the door and remain alone with her child. To have her son in her embrace seemed to be all that mattered to her now.

However, the moment her sister sat down on the edge of the bed, the instant she saw the wonder and desperate longing in her beloved sister's dark green eyes, she recalled what she had begged her sister to do.

To change her mind would not only break her word, it would break Guinevere's heart as well.

"A boy or a girl, Minerva?"

Her lips lifted in a forced smile, although Minerva could feel tears gathering in her eyes as she tried to reply without revealing the sense of anguish she felt. "You have a son, Gwen," she said softly. "A healthy little lad."

Guinevere did not lift her face, her eyes fixed on the child, but muffled a sob, a hand coming to her mouth, as she stared at the infant.

"Gwen? What is it?"

Emerald green eyes, spilling over with tears, rose to the younger of the two women, a plump hand closing around a slender one. "He's your son, Minerva... how can you bear to part with your own son?"

Minerva looked down at the child's face as he continued to greedily suck, then back at her sister. "Because I know that you will be able to give him a far better life than I ever could, Gwen," she replied sadly. "You have so much love to give and you have wanted this for so much longer than I ever have. You know you can not try to change my mind now. I promised you this child and you will have him."

Nodding, Guinevere hastily wiped her face with her hands and tried to smile, but it was belied by the pity that Minerva wished she could not feel. "You are a wonderful sister, Minerva."

"You deserve him so much more than I, Gwen," she whispered, withdrawing the child from her beast and awkwardly winding him. "He is yours now. I will rest for tonight and return home tomorrow."

"But..."

"No, Gwen," Minerva shook her head firmly. "If I stay any longer, I would not be able to keep my word and I could not bear to be the one to ruin a chance that this little one would have for a happy life with you. And for you to have him as your son."

Guinevere eased up the bed to sit next to her sister, sliding her arms round Minerva's thinner, exhausted body. "You are a good woman, Minerva," she said, embracing her sister tightly.

Unable to reply, Minerva shifted her son from her arms into Guinevere's, the wonder and awe in her sister's face making the thought of parting with her precious son so much easier, although she could feel the pang of longing to remain.

"Do you wish to name him?"

"Me?"

"He is your son, Minerva."

Raising a hand to brush the loose strands of her hair back from her face, Minerva was a little shaken and bewildered. A name? She had never thought of a name before because she had assumed that he would simply be taken and that would be that.

"I... I would name him after his father," she replied hesitantly. "Donald."

"Donald Patterson," Guinevere murmured, studying the child. "Do you think he will be like us?"

"A wizard?" Guinevere nodded. "Who can be sure, Gwen? He may."

"And you may teach him, when he goes to Hogwarts."

The very thought of it sent a jolt of shock through Minerva. She had forgotten that the wizarding genes in her blood might pass to her child, which meant that he would inevitably end up at Hogwarts, if his parents permitted it.

"And you will be his aunt... won't you?"

"His aunt?" Minerva echoed numbly, her head spinning. Her intention had been simple. Place the child with someone who would care enough for him to raise him as their own, then never see him again. "I..." Did she want that, though? To be parted from him forever? "Would you mind?"

"You are my sister, Minerva and I know you will want to know how he grows. To be his aunt... it would be a simple way for you to make certain of his happiness."

Minerva almost snorted at the thought. If any child could be unhappy with Gwen and Angus as its parents, then the world would surely spin off its axis and collide with the sun, both of them so generous and good-natured.

"I may visit from time to time," she said slowly. "But he is never to know the truth of who I am. I want him raised in a proper family with a mother and a father. He cannot know the truth of his father. Or me."

Guinevere nodded. "We will do as you wish, Minerva," she agreed quietly. "It will be between us alone until my dying day."

Resting her head against Guinevere's shoulder, Minerva felt her sister's arm tighten around her shoulder and pressed her eyes closed to quell a wave of tears, both of them gazing down at Donald, where he lay, small hands waving, in the blankets in his new mother's arms.

***

Rain had started afresh by the next morning. It drizzled miserably against the glass as Minerva folded and placed her clothing into her small travelling bag, the fire crackling in the grate as she packed.

Her long hair was drawn back into a braid that hung in a rope to her waist, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping in the night. She had spent hours standing beside the empty cradle that had so briefly borne her son, silent tears streaming down her face.

Placing her journal into the top of her large carpet bag, she closed it over, fastening the brass clasp.

Behind her, she heard the door open and turned.

Guinevere stood there, little Donald asleep in her arms. "Are you leaving already?"

Nodding, her throat closing up at the sight of the natural way her child was resting in her sister's arms, she sniffed and hastily dug out a kerchief from the cuff of her sleeve, blowing her nose.

"Yes," she replied after a moment to regain control of her breaking voice. "I really ought to get back to Albus. After all, I have missed an entire school term and it is hardly appropriate for the Transfiguration teacher to simply vanish."

"You... will come and visit?"

Wetting her dry lips, Minerva desperately wanted to cry 'no!', to run away, to avoid seeing her son being raised by someone else. "Not for some time," she said carefully, lowering her eyes. "I-I need some time to..."

"Adjust?" Guinevere suggested quietly and Minerva nodded, her lips pressing together in a thin line. "You are always welcome here, whenever you feel the need to visit, Minerva. Never forget it, my sister."

"I won't, Gwen," she promised. Picking up her bag, she smiled wanly. "Take good care of Donald for me."

"Of course. Take care of yourself, Minerva."

Nodding, a jerky motion, Minerva disapparated out, away from her sister, the place that had been her home for so many months and, most importantly, from her son.


	2. Chapter Two

A Mother's Tears

Notes: I cannot reiterate enough just how much my muse likes this story. I'm in the process of writing the toughest chapter of Fractured Triangle, but my muse wants to play with this. I thought FT would be angsty enough to satisfy it, but no... my muse likes dear Minerva and wants to get this series done.

Oh and to explain, each chapter of the series is going to be five years apart, so this is five years after Donald was born. I don't know why, but I just had the urge to do it this way.

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Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

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- Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

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February 17th 1951

The air was cool, clear and crisp, a stiff breeze whipping her skirt around her legs, the sky a soft, near-white shade of blue. It was all so different from the last memory she had, when she had last visited the house that her sister inhabited.

Standing at the gate that led into the garden, Minerva McGonagall's hand rested on the latch, her fingers trembling slightly, as she tried to find the courage to open the gate and make her way down the path in the tidy little garden.

The gloomy-looking house squatted at the far end of the winter-touched garden, not a pretty building, but functional. Two storeys, made of bleak grey stone with slate tiles on the roof, tendrils of ivy looking like they were struggling to feebly climb the walls.

The slightly rusty latch of the gate squealed as Minerva slowly lifted it, the hinges of the gate shrieking in protest as she pushed it open and stepped onto the path of cement that led to the front door.

However, at that moment a small figure ran around the side of the house, chasing a ball, laughing giddily, and Minerva felt her heart leap to her throat, one hand rising to her chest, the other clutching her bag to her side.

It could only be Donald.

Picking up the ball, the little boy looked up at her with a curious look that only very young children can perform, cocking his head to one side and staring at her. "Hello," he said bluntly. "Who are you?"

Minerva wished she could find the words to reply to him, but she couldn't even form a coherent thought, staring at him in wonder, drinking in every feature of the beautiful little boy that her son had grown into. 

Around the average height for a five-year-old, his black hair was wind-tossed and unruly around his ruddy face, green eyes that were clearly like her own: bright, wide and curious. One of his front teeth was missing and a spatter of freckles was dashed across his nose which, like his father's, turned up slightly.

Clad in a pair of grey shorts and a dark grey jumper, with long, woollen, grey school socks tugged up to scuffed and scraped knees, he looked the perfect child and the urge to gather him in her arms almost overwhelmed her.

"Donald," a male voice called, shaking Minerva from her reverie. "Donald, whit are ye' dain'?" 

Donald looked around as his adoptive father came around the side of the house, beaming at him. "Da'," He pointed at Minerva with a small finger. "There's a wumin here an' she disnae know who she is."

Angus' brown eyes met Minerva's and she saw the surprise, then pleasure cross his face. "Minerva!" he exclaimed, hurrying to stand behind Donald, who was looking increasingly confused. "How are ye?"

"Tolerable, Angus. Yourself?"

"Well, we cannae complain," he said affably, his hands on Donald's shoulders. "Ye should have let us know ye were comin'. Gwennie would have set a place for ye at the birthday boy's table."

"Why?" Donald's shrill voice piped up. "I dinnae know her."

Angus and Minerva both laughed a little, although Minerva's laugh was tainted with sadness. "Now, son, that wisnae very polite, was it?" Bright pink spots appeared on the boy's cheeks. "This is... well..."

"I'm your Aunt Minerva," Minerva interrupted smoothly, forcing a smile onto her lips. "Your mother is my sister."

Donald looked up at Angus in question, the dark-haired Muggle nodding and lifting his hands from the boy's shoulders. Trotting forward, his ball gripped in his left hand, he extended a grubby little right hand. "I'm pleased to meet ye," he said formally.

Unable to hide a genuine smile, Minerva shook the extended hand. "And I'm very pleased to meet you too," she replied. "And I hear that it's your birthday, as well. How old are you, wee man?"

"I'm five," Donald replied, puffing out his chest proudly. He studied her. "If yer mah auntie, did ye bring me a birthday present?"

"Donald!"

Minerva couldn't help laughing at the innocent bluntness of the boy. "You'll have to wait and see about that, my wee man," she said with a smile, unable to resist running a hand through his tangled mass of hair.

Donald beamed at her, flashing his gummy smile. "Da'," He turned to Angus, who was brushing his hands down on his heavy working trousers. "Shall I go and tell me mam that Aunt Minerva is here?"

"Aye," Angus nodded. "Ye go and do that, son."

Grinning once more at Minerva, the boy darted off, running back around the side of the house. They could hear him shouting, "Mam! Mam!"

"We didnae think ye were gonnae come back, Minerva," Angus finally said, still gazing after the boy. The witch wondered briefly if maybe she had made a mistake in returning after all. "Gwen has missed ye."

"I didnae know if I would be welcome," she replied quietly, Angus' broad Highland accent making her own lesser one rise to the surface. "Or comfortable. I wasnae sure if I could face seeing him again. He's grown so much."

"Aye," Angus acknowledged. "And he's a good wee lad as well. He disnae cheek Gwen, he behaves at the school, he does what he's told and ye've gifted him wi' yer love of learnin'. He loves readin'." 

A small smile reached Minerva's lips. "Then it appears my choice of gift for him was surprisingly suitable." 

"Ye brought him somethin'? Ye didnae need to do that..."

Green eyes met brown. "I did need to, Angus," Minerva said quietly, although her voice shook slightly. "After all, how often does my... your wee boy turn five? I had to bring something for him."

There was a moment of silence, then Angus smiled. "Come on," he said, motioning for her to follow him. Leading her around the side of the house, towards the back door, he continued to speak. "Gwen will be thrilled to see ye again."

***

At Donald's birthday party, where the boy was surrounded by a laughing group of children of his own age, Minerva could not decide if her choice to visit had been a good one or bad. 

Seeing her own son, so very happy, made her heart bound with joy, but to have him acknowledge her with nothing more than careful courtesy was enough to send her to the deepest pits of despair. 

Just to see him smile though, his laughter breaking through the silence, made it all worthwhile, knowing that he was loved and cherished by her sister.

After the small group of friends had departed, Donald, a little drowsy from the games and all the fuss that had been made, climbed up and sat next to Minerva on the horsehair sofa that sat in front of the fire, in the parlour. 

The evening had cooled and the small fire that was glowing in the grate provided a source of warmth, while Guinevere made tea in the kitchen and Angus cleared up after their guests.

"Did ye enjoy yer party?" she asked, her hands resting in her lap, uncertain how he would react if she suddenly threw her arms around him and hugged him as if he were the most precious possession she had.

Rubbing his nose on the back of his hand, Donald nodded. "It was braw," he said, flashing the broad, gummy smile up at her again. "I liked me mam's cake! It had me name on it!"

"I saw that, Donald," Minerva smiled as he bounced up and down beside her. She bent to reach down into her large, black bag, which lay at her feet. "Now, my wee man, would you like your present?"

"Ye brought me somethin'?"

"Well, it is yer birthday, isn't it?"

Donald beamed at her, as she handed him a package, neatly wrapped with a long gold ribbon around the red and white paper. "Can I open it now, Aunt Minerva?" he asked, his tone more that of "Let me open it! Let me! Let me!".

"Of course you may," she replied, smiling, unaware of her sister's eyes on her as she watched her five-year-old son rip the ribbons and paper off eagerly, uncaring of how pretty they were.

"A book!" The shrill excitement in the boy's voice made both his mother and his adoptive mother smile indulgently. "Ye got me a book!" Bending over it, he stared intently at the gold writing on the red leather of the cover. "The Hob-bit." 

"I don't know if ye'll be able to read it yet, my wee man," Minerva said, hesitantly raising a hand to run it through his hair. "But I've heard that it's very good and it all about magic and monsters in distant lands."

Donald wriggled like an excited puppy when she stroked his hair, depositing the book reverently on the couch before launching himself into her arms and flinging his arms around her neck.

"Thank you!" he exclaimed happily, settling himself quite comfortably in her lap when he relinquished the hug, which Minerva had - after a moment of hesitation - returned. Snuggling against her, he opened the book up. "I like books."

"I do too."

Green eyes looked up at her, as if pleased by this revelation. "Me mam doesn't like reading books very much," he said in a conspiratorial tone, glancing around to make sure they weren't being listened to. 

"I'm a teacher, so I have to like books, really," Unable to stop herself, Minerva continued to stroke his unruly hair with one hand, as he examined the picture of Thror's Map in the first pages of the book.

Donald seemed to hesitate over something, then burst out with, "Will you read this with me?"

"Me? Surely you would like your mother or father to..."

The boy shook his head, curls dancing on his forehead. "They dinnae like reading much," he said by way of explanation. "And ye are a teacher and ye'll know all the big words I dinnae know."

Risking a glance in the direction of the kitchen, Minerva was startled to see her elder sister watching both of them from the doorway, smiling, while drying her hands on a blue and white towel. Guinevere nodded once, then returned to her tasks.

Turning back to Donald, Minerva found that the eyes that matched her own had one skill she didn't: the ability to beg and break hearts in the same expression. "Please, Aunt Minerva?" he implored.

Even if he hadn't spoken, Minerva knew she wouldn't have been able to resist the enormous green eyes that were blinking hopefully up at her.

"I suppose I might read a little," she acquiesced, shifting him in her lap until they were both comfortable. "But then, you have to promise to go straight to bed when your mother tells you."

Donald looked like he was ready to start bouncing in her lap, but managed to restrain himself as he looked down at the book. "Can we start now?" he asked excitedly. "I like the map! The map is nice!"

Unable to suppress a smile, Minerva pressed a kiss to his forehead, taking the chance to inhale his scent. 

While waves of carbolic reeked off him, she could still recognise his own scent, the one he had borne since he was a baby and the one she remembered even in spite of the half decade which had passed.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, Aunt Minerva."

Picking up the book, one of her arms looped around Donald's middle, Minerva turned it to the beginning of the first chapter, smoothing the page with her long, slender fingers. "Chapter one," she began to read. "An unexpected party. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit..."

"What's a hobbit?" Donald demanded, looking up at her. "Is it magic?"

"You know," Minerva replied with mock shock in her voice, her eyes round. "I dinnae know. Shall we read on and see if we can find out?" Donald immediately nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole..."

Beyond them, in the kitchen, Angus approached the door, where Guinevere was standing once again, sliding an arm around her. "Are they all righ' in there?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Guinevere nodded with a small smile. "She's reading to him."

"He really is awfy like her, isn't he, Gwennie?"

"And he seems to like her as well."

Angus smiled sadly. "I wish we could have had our own, Gwen," he murmured. "But I think our wee lad... he's perfect enough."

"Aye," Guinevere agreed, turning to rest her head on his shoulder. "And I still love ye, Angus. For putting up wi' me and for taking the wee one in, even though he isnae of yer blood."

Her husband kissed her gently, his smile reassuring. "Gwen, love, he's as good as mine," he said, raising a hand to stroke her cheek. "I love him and you. I wouldnae hae it any other way."

Arms around each other, both of them looked through into the living room, where their adopted son and his mother were giggling together on the settee over the fact that hobbits had hairy feet.

***

"Will ye come and see me again, Aunt Minerva?"

Tucking Donald's blankets over him, the witch nodded with a smile. "I would be happy to do that again, Donald," she said, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, the curls from his widow's peak flopping back down immediately.

In the smaller of the two bedrooms in the house, the room where he was born, the five-year-old was dwarfed by the enormous bed he slept in, a small gas lamp over the bed providing a warming gold light.

With the starched, white sheets tucked up to his chest, his arms folded on top of the blankets, he yawned drowsily and smiled up at his so-called Aunt. "Will ye tell me a bed time story, Aunt Minerva?"

"A bedtime story?" she laughed. "We just read thirty pages of The Hobbit. Surely that is enough for now."

Donald grinned sleepily. "Aunt Minerva, do you have any children?"

The question made her start. "Me?"

"Aye... if ye did... I could play wi' them." Minerva pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes stinging. Sleepy as he was, Donald appeared to notice, his small hand coming out and seeking her other one. "Why are ye cryin'?"

"Oh, I-I'm just remembering something, Donald," she replied, her voice slightly choked. "I-I had a wee boy, once, and I loved him very much, but I couldn't keep him. I didn't have anyone to help me look after him, like your mother has your father and I couldn't keep him." 

Green eyes studied her. "Dae ye miss him?"

"More and more every day," she admitted, Donald's small fingers squeezing hers.

"What was he like? Would he have liked tae play wi' me?"

Minerva choked back a half-sob, half-laugh. "He's like you, Donald," she replied, stroking his cheek gently. "He's so very like you... you would have liked him, if you ever met him, I think."

"Maybe I will," Donald decided firmly, beaming at her between yawns. "And we'll play with my ball and have cake like me mam makes... and biscuits... and... and he can read wi' me... and we... we'll..."

Minerva smiled sadly as his head sank to the side in sleep, a contented smile on his lips, his bright green eyes closing before he could even finish his sentence. Leaning forwards, she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Good night, my wee man," she murmured, rising to her feet and dimming the gas lamp over the bed, before withdrawing from the room, never taking her eyes off her sleeping son until she was closing the door.

Making her way down the stairs, she was unable to smother the sob that had been building and knew that she would be in no fit state to face her sister, as tears streamed down her face.

"I'm off, Gwen," she called, her voice cracking. "Write to me."

Before her sister could even voice a protest, she disapparated, apparating straight to the grounds directly outside Hogwarts. Sinking down on the night-chilled grass, the moon her only witness, she buried her face in her hands and wept, wishing in her heart of hearts that she had kept her child as her own.


	3. Chapter Three

A Mother's Tears

Notes: I'm going to finish at least one series before summer, if it kills me! I have at least fifteen in progress and since this is one of the shorter ones, I figure this would be the best candidate. Plus, I'm in the mood for a nice dose of lost-child-to-another-person-style angst. Gotta love it when I'm in a good mood :D

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Mother is the name of God on the lips and hearts of all children

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- William M. Thackeray

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July 16th 1956

Warm, mid-afternoon sunlight was pouring in through narrow, arched windows that still bore the speckles of rain which had been falling only twenty minutes earlier. 

Outside, the blue sky was scudded with fluffy, grey-lipped white cloud, yet looked freshly washed, the light scent of the air clean and permeating every corner of the normally stuffy room, where a teacher sat at a desk.

Oblivious, Professor Minerva McGonagall did not notice nor care that the rain which had been pouring down near torrentially for two days had given way to the beaming face of the sun.

A quiet knock on the door of her private office caused Minerva to raise her green eyes from the letter she was in the process of writing, the quill stilling over the sheet of parchment. "Come in."

With a squeal, the heavy door opened and a bearded face peered in, a smile on the visage of the Head Master. "I suspected I might find you here, Minerva," he said with a small sigh. "Honestly, my dear lady, why do you linger here during the summer?"

Laying her quill down, Minerva gave him a measured look over the gold rims of her spectacles. "And why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer, Albus?" she challenged, folding her hands in front of her.

"I must be growing senile," Albus chuckled, entering the room fully and approaching her desk, rubbing his hands together. 

Minerva snorted, shaking her head. She retrieved her quill and dipped it in the ink well, lifting her eyes to her long-time friend as she did so. 

"Not to be rude, Albus, but what brings you here?" she said, a touch curious. While Albus made it his duty to watch over her, he seldom intruded without good reason or invitation. "If you have come to lament my lack of social interaction, then I suggest you leave before I am forced to turn you into something unpleasant."

"With such a way with words, it is a wonder that even I tolerate your company," the wizard said amiably, his blue eyes twinkling. Minerva flashed a mock-glare at him, which only served to make him beam at her. 

Tapping her quill against the lip of the ink well with a little more vehemence than she would otherwise show, Minerva kept her eyes on him, her lips pressing together in muted annoyance. "Albus, as you know, I have no wish to find a charming husband or 'settle down'," she said firmly. "As I have told you countless times before."

"Which is a true tragedy," he said seriously. She could feel his eyes on her bowed head. "You would have made a wonderful mother." 

Minerva forced her attention back upon the parchment, her teeth clenched together, blinking hard. The only person she had ever contemplated sharing her life with, in a brief moment of madness, had torn her heart out and ripped it asunder before her eyes, leaving her feeling as if she were worth less than dirt. 

Drawing controlled breaths, she forced down tears at the memory of the man. Even though they had only shared one night and day, the very thought of him made her heart break all over again.

To be used so very badly, then cast aside...

She couldn't...

Wouldn't.

Her lips a narrow line, her eyes stung with the effort of containing her tears. 

She would never allow herself to be hurt that way again and if it meant avoiding the kind of interaction Albus wished for her, if it meant never bearing another child, if it meant the continuing the lie that she was simply Donald's aunt...so be it.

Clearing her throat, she spread her left hand on her chest, trying to steady her emotions and raised her eyes to Albus once more. "Well, we both know my stance on the situation. I am quite content, thank you very much." Blue eyes gave her a measured look, which said everything and nothing. _Change the subject. Change the subject, please!_ "So, Albus, why did you drop by?"

"Well," Albus seemed to accept her change in topic, although there was a look on his face which said that he might have stopped talking about it now, but that did not mean the subject was closed. "It is rather opportune that you are here, my dear."

"Oh?"

What else could she have said?

Her mind was snapping that Albus had to leave at once, to give her some privacy and to let her regain her rapidly slipping self-control. Yes, she could tolerate his concern for her, but she did not want to hear his worries about her relationships.

He favoured her with a small, cryptic smile. "There is a particular task I thought you might be interested in doing for me and the school," he replied, one hand dipping into a capricious pocket and withdrawing an envelope. 

Placing it flat on the desktop, he slid it towards her, Minerva's brows lifting, as she reached over, picking it up.

Turning it over to see to whom it was addressed, she saw the familiar address written in his favourite purple ink, her wide, startled eyes lifting to him as the colour drained from her face.

"Your only nephew, isn't he?" There was something in Albus' calm, gentle voice that caused her already quivering heart jolt like a startled hare at the sound of the horn of the hunt.

Minerva tried to nod her head in assent, but it felt like she was caught in a full body-bind. Except her hand, which was shaking violently, the letter shivering between her fingers. Her eyes dropped back to the address, her mind in a whirl.

"So he is a wizard," she managed to spill the words. "We did not know if he would be or not."

Albus Dumbledore smiled, the warm, genuine smile that had made him so trusted and comforting on so many occasions. "Rest assured that he most certainly is," he said. "After all, look at his mother."

Again, Minerva felt the strange prickle of panic at the tone in his voice. Did he know about her little Donald? Was he trying her? And what if others knew that her little boy was at the school? 

Her poor wee lad...

Wee lad...

Donald had only just turned ten! 

Too soon!

It was too soon!

"He-he's too young to come here!" she said urgently, the hand on her chest pressing against the thick fabric of her robes, fingers biting into her skin, bruising. "He's only ten! He should start here next year!"

"Ah, yes," Albus nodded slowly, his hands once more folded within in his capricious sleeves. "But, you see, he was born before the twentieth of February and you know well that the cut-off date for our students is the twentieth. He will be joining us here in September. I thought you might like to be the one to deliver the letter."

Donald.

Donald was coming to Hogwarts.

Her son was coming to her school to be taught magic.

Minerva's vision swam, her breathing shallow and rapid.

She had suspected that one day, she might have to deal with seeing him more than two or three times a year, but to have him there, in Hogwarts, in front of her every day of the school terms was a little more than she was ready for.

"Minerva?" Albus' voice was tinged with concern. "Are you all right?"

Nodding jerkily, she managed to wrench her hand from her breast and smiled tightly up at him, although it felt that her cheeks were about to splinter from the sheer force she had to exert to make the corners of her mouth lift. 

"I-I just was not expecting him to be coming here so soon," she said, a slight rasp in her voice. Trembling as well, nervous, startled and anxious. "After all, it seems like barely yesterday that he was a baby."

Albus nodded, his eyes on her in a familiar penetrating gaze. "Children do seem to grow rudely fast," he remarked. "One minute, you find yourself with a baby in your arms and the next moment, that baby is married with children of their own. You would think they might have the courtesy to grow a little slower."

Forcing a strained little laugh, Minerva nodded again. "It would certainly seem to be the case," she said, although her attention was more upon the letter gripped in her trembling hand than on her old friend.

"You will deliver the letter, then?"

In some distant part of her mind, she was screaming an adamant refusal, howling that her son was too young, too small, too hers to be attending Hogwarts, where she would have to teach him.

Both fortuitously and regrettably, the civilised section of her mind constructed the reply she gave Albus: "Of course. I would be delighted."

***

The weather had dulled considerably by the time the Professor of Transfiguration found the nerve to depart from the school, walking across the magnificent grounds to Disapparate straight to the house of her sister.

Pulling up the hood of her dark robes as she emerged during a shower of rain, Minerva pushed the creaky gate open and hurried down the gravel-strewn path, one hand holding the collar of her robes as she made her way to the door.

Raising her hand, Minerva's fingers hovered a hair's breadth from the shiny brass of the knocker in the middle of the green door, her heart and mind both racing. 

If she were to fail to deliver the letter to her sister and Donald, Albus would know and would be alerted that something was amiss, which would give him even more leverage for trying to seek out the flaw in her allegedly comfortable life.

Her fingertips ghosted hesitantly over the cool, rain-speckled brass, a light trail of misty condensation left by her skin, before she lifted the brass knocker and rapped sharply. Once. Twice.

"I'll get it, mam!"

Minerva closed her eyes at the sound of Donald's voice from the hall. Feet pounded on the stairs, just inside, and the front door was flung wide to the wall, revealing - in all his perfect glory - her son.

It had only been six months since she had visited, yet he had sprung up inches in the time that had past. His dark hair was as unruly as ever, as his mother's was when she did not take the time to tame it, his face ruddy and merry, the smile on his face bright, forming deep dimples in his cheeks.

"Aunt Minerva!"

Before she could raise her hands to ward him off or even voice a protest, the black-haired boy threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly. Her breath hitched and it wasn't because of his bear-like grip.

"It's lovely to see you again too, Donald," she managed to say, although her voice was hollow. Her hands came to his shoulders and she gently negotiated him back a little from her. "Although, I do rather like to be able to breathe, my wee man."

Grinning at her, Donald's green eyes danced. "Ye didnae tell us ye were gonnae visit us, Aunt Minerva," he noted, stepping back to let her into the hall and taking her heavy travelling robes to hang up on a peg to the right of the door. "Mam thought ye'd forgotten about us."

"As if I would be able to forget you," Minerva said quietly, a note of sadness in her voice that was completely disregarded by the ten-year-old. Forcing a smile, she added quickly. "And as if your mother would allow me to forget her."

"Did I just hear the insolent tones of my baby sister?" Guinevere's laughing voice rang down the narrow hall from the small living room, her full silhouette appearing in the doorway at the end. 

"Aye, mam! It's Aunt Minerva!"

Minerva tried to smile at her sister, as she approached. "It has been a while, Gwen."

"For which, ye have to admit, yer responsible," Guinevere chastised gently, then turned to Donald, who was bouncing on his toes and hugging himself. "Will ye be a wee sweetheart and go and put the kettle on for me and yer Aunt, son?"

Nodding eagerly, Donald beamed at her. "A'right, mam!" 

Bounding off to the kitchen, he left the two women facing one another, half a dozen paces between them. Minerva lowered her eyes, one hand delving into the pockets of her robes. "I-I only really came to deliver this to you," she said, withdrawing the letter and holding it out to her sister. "I shouldnae stay long."

"What is it, Miner..." Guinevere's eyes widened, clearly identifying what her little sister was holding. Minerva recognised the shock which she had felt herself, only an hour or two earlier. "Oh my..."

"He's to start this year."

"But he's only ten..."

Minerva nodded, lowering her eyes. "I said the same thing to Albus when he brought this to me," she replied, her voice low. "But he pointed out that Donald is within the cut-off age for that year group and that he should begin this year."

Leaning heavily against the dark doorframe, Guinevere's fingers gripped against the wood, the tips whitening. "And if we say no?"

"You know how the system works, Gwen," Minerva replied unhappily, turning the letter over in her hands. "Should a child with any magical potential remain untrained, they could be regarded as a potential danger by the Ministry of Magic."

"I-I could teach him here."

The younger witch shook her head. "I wish you could as well." _For utterly selfish motives_, she added bitterly to herself, _anything to avoid facing him every day_. "You wouldnae be allowed, Gwen. You know how strict they've been recently, after Grindelwald then, the Chamber of Secrets."

"But he's so wee..."

"Who's wee?"

Both the witches turned to see Donald standing just behind his mother, a puzzled expression on his face, his mere presence utterly nullifying his mother's argument. He already stood at nearly the same height as Guinevere, his head just cresting Minerva's shoulder, already taller than either of them had been at Hogwarts.

_His father's height_, Minerva thought with a pang of pain.

"You are, Donald," Guinevere said with a tight laugh that sounded forced even to Minerva's ears.

"I'm no' wee!" Donald protested indignantly, then seemed to spot the letter in Minerva's hand, a look of curiosity crossing his brown-as-a-berry face, tanned from hours of playing outdoors. "Is that a letter for me mam, Aunt Minerva? Why didn't ye just post it to her?"

Minerva raised her eyes to Guinevere again, her heart wrenching painfully. Her sister slowly nodded, looking as pained as the younger witch felt. "Actually, my wee man, it's for you," she said.

"For me?"

"Aye," Her breath escaped in a rush and she tried to find words to explain to him what the letter contained. "You remember the school I teach at?" Donald nodded. They had never kept the reality of the wizarding world from him, especially not with his mother being a pureblood witch. "This is a letter to tell you that you have been accepted there."

"Me?" Green eyes went as wide as saucers. "I'm gonnae go to a magic school?"

"If... if you want to," Minerva said, her heart warmed by the look of sheer delight on her son's face, yet aching because she knew that soon, she would be facing his bright eyes and smile every day.

Easing around his adoptive mother, Donald scampered down the hallway towards Minerva, staring at the letter eagerly. "Can... can I open it?" he asked, looking up at her with shining eyes.

"Of course, wee man."

Tearing open the envelope, he was bouncing excitedly as he quickly pulled the letter free and started reading aloud the missive from the Head Master, his eyes dancing with delight.

Raising a hand to stroke Donald's unruly hair, her eyes lifting to her sister, Minerva saw the acceptance on Guinevere's face and knew that there was no further question in the matter: Donald would be going to Hogwarts in September.

***

"Patterson, Donald!"

Scanning over the faces of the pupils, Minerva could not help returning the smile that her son shot at her as he squeezed to the fore of the group towards the stool, where he would be sorted by the hat she currently held in her hand.

Dropping down onto the stool, his grin enough to illuminate the Great Hall, he looked up at the hat expectantly, squeezing his eyes shut as it was placed on his head, his hands clenching together in his lap.

So excitable and so very, very keen, he was.

Genevieve had brought the young boy down to Diagon Alley the previous day, by a portkey, and the three of them had spent the whole day together, getting his supplies and robes, filling a new trunk, which Minerva had bought him as a gift.

Angus had not attended, busy working at the factory, but he had given his adopted son his blessing and a large, generous bag of sweets to take with him for his journey to the school.

They had stopped at Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour late in the afternoon and, after ordering a massive Sundae for Donald, had talked about the school, pondering which house Donald might be put into. 

With creamy ice cream and chocolate syrup dripping down his chin, he had beamed up at them both and said he didn't mind, as long as the hat didn't say he had to leave the school. 

Minerva, herself, had been a Gryffindor, which led to the expectation that her own little boy could be one as well.

She suspected he would be either Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, as he was very intelligent and surprisingly well-read for a child of his age, without a cunning or malicious bone in his honest and happy little body.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

And how well that assumption paid off.

Hopping off the stool as soon as the hat was lifted from his head, he beamed up at her and bound towards the Gryffindor table, throwing himself onto the long bench beside a blonde girl and opposite a brown-haired boy, his sunny grin drawing hesitant smiles from each of them.

Working her way through the rest of the register for the Sorting, Minerva had never been more grateful to take her seat at the High Table, sitting down beside Albus, her eyes immediately seeking out her son at the Gryffindor table.

Already, he was chattering eagerly with those around him, practically ignoring his food in favour of his new friends, who she recognised as Benedict, Adrian, Parker, Catherine and Ledger, William. 

"He seems a friendly boy."

Turning to find Albus studying her son, she nodded. "He is."

Blue eyes glanced at her. "Remarkably like his mother, wouldn't you say?" he said with a reassuring smile.

Minerva stared at him in a combination of shock, horror and dismay, realising what he was saying in his subtle way. Of the two sisters, she had been the friendly, out-going one, while Guinevere had been the quiet one, who kept herself to herself.

He knew.

He _knew_!

Her heart seemed to wrench against her sternum. "Albus, I-I..."

One of his hands found hers on the arm of her chair and squeezed it gently. "Have no fear, dear lady," he murmured comfortingly, his eyes holding hers. "Your sister's son is one of the happiest children I have ever seen and I have seen many. His mother is a lucky woman."

Minerva smiled weakly. "Yes," she replied, her eyes drifting to Donald again, where he was clapping his hands and laughing merrily, the sight causing a well of affection in her breast. "She really is."


End file.
